


Cause They Say, We're The Worthless Ones

by Theboys



Series: Master of Reality [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Fisting, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean, Unrelated Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Dean hums, jams his thumb in carefully, just at the pulse point in Sam’s neck, so he couldn’t talk if he wanted to, can barely breathe. “M’gonna fuck it outta you.”</p><p>In which Sam has a coffee-date with not-Dean, and Dean Winchester has anger management issues, but, don't worry, he knows just how to handle himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause They Say, We're The Worthless Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Violence, by ADTR.
> 
> This is wildly out of hand, and gratuitously porny. I'm disgusted with myself and with what you're about to read.

Sam doesn’t even like coffee all that much.

His friends always ask him how he expects to stay awake for all-nighters, inquire as to whether or not he uses energy drinks instead.

Sam tells them he just tends to get enough sleep, (less, since Dean,) and when that’s not applicable, he prays. A lot.

Sam’s been thinking about joining the cloth, he’s had to supplicate so often.

So, he fiddles with his coffee. He got black, because he feels like he should start out with the basics. He’s a blank slate. He doesn’t even know what he’s gonna like yet.

He’s sniffed it a couple of times so far, but it’s not really doing much for him.

People actually ingest this shit?

He’s so engrossed in calculating the merits of coffee-consumption that he misses Caleb’s arrival until the other boy is spread out in front of him, long-legs bracketed by the charcoal-grey table between them.

His smile is cracked-open and frank, and he looks different today, probably because he’s more awake. Caleb’s peeling himself out of his overcoat, and he shoves his sleeves up to his elbows.

His sweater is clinging to him like a second skin, and Sam takes his first sip of coffee in a panic, and promptly sputters the mess back into the cup.

“What the fuck is this?” Sam says indignantly, pushing the mixture away from him.

Caleb snorts and reaches across the table, snags the offensive drink into his hand. He sniffs at it, very seriously.

“I think it’s your standard Americano, man.” Caleb hefts it in his hand, gentle mockery. “Don’t think it’s poisoned, but what do I know? No one’s ever tried to poison me yet.”

Sam leans back, comfortable, just like that, and crosses his arms.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Sam says.

Things go smoothly, after that. Sam’s hard-pressed not to laugh at everything Caleb says, and as soon as Caleb makes a Game of Thrones reference, (particularly concerning how better characters are slaughtered in their prime, but we’re still allotted copious amounts of Sansa chapters) Sam’s hooked.

They’re arguing over whether or not the replica of the Iron Throne on the series does Martin’s author-representation justice (it doesn’t) when Caleb’s phone lights up and he glances down dismissively at the time.

“Shit. I got a study group I need to be at.” Caleb looks a little wild-eyed, his eyes darker than they were the first time Sam noticed them, teeth just as new and tight as before.

Sam shyly angles his head down and smiles at the tabletop.

“When you gotta be there?” Sam asks. Caleb’s already standing, got his jacket sleeves twisted inside out as he tries to put it on in a hurry.

“Bout thirty minutes ago.” His voice is tight with haste and Sam feels bad for him, knows he kept him about an hour too long.

“M’sorry about that,” Sam says, low, and Sam hears the rustling above him come to an abrupt stop. He glances up in a hurry, and sees Caleb eyeing him with an inscrutable expression, eyes lidded and onyx.

“C’mere,” Caleb breathes out, and Sam’s standing, knees knocking into the edge of the table so that the few patrons around them give him dirty glares.

Caleb’s hand locks around his wrist as he tugs him just outside the coffee-house, and Sam’s got about four seconds to be distracted by the bitter contrast of warmth to frigidity, because Caleb’s mouth descends on his.

There’s no time to breathe, and Caleb’s other hand snakes up to the back of his neck, and he digs blunt fingernails into the skin there, so hard that Sam cries out a little.

His dick lengthens in response to the sliver of pain, and he can feel Caleb’s teeth against his slack lower-lip, cool in their porcelain perfection.

“Jesus, Sam, I wanna fuck the life outta you.” Caleb says it so matter-of-fact that Sam’s hips hump the air, grind into nothingness.

Caleb takes a step away from him, drags his nails down the nape of Sam’s neck and releases. Sam thinks he might have a few scratches remaining.

“I’ll call you after,” Caleb says, backing away at a run, one arm still hanging out of his sleeve.

It’s then that Sam remembers seaweed-green eyes, and a boy whose last name he doesn’t even know.

-

Dean Winchester has anger management problems.

He’s had them ever since he was young, and his father told him he wouldn’t be allowed to come along on this one, son, and, you stay here with your Uncle Bobby.

You’re too young.

Not enough experience.

Not fast enough, boy.

He’s gotten better at the management over the years, fights or fucks the anger away until it’s just a shadow of a memory, but there’s one thing that makes him burn like nothing else, and that’s betrayal.

It’s why he doesn’t love anyone but John and Bobby, why there’s no one on that list that can hurt him.

He’s not sure when Sammy slithered his way into the group, but now he’s got to stare it right in the face and bite the bullet, as it were.

Kid’s soft as honey, sweeter than any kind of pie Dean could think up. He’s clean lines and smooth skin, and he bends over for Dean prettier than Dean’s ever seen anyone before.

He opens up his legs all dirty-sweet, taste like candied sugar in the back of his throat.

Dean wants to swallow him whole and it’s a fucking terrifying feeling.

Sammy doesn’t ask him as many questions as he used to, and Dean doesn’t know whether to be relieved or scared.

When he looks at the lines across Sam’s neck, faint, fading marks, he knows he was right to be scared, but he can’t see anything but the blaze.

Sam’s hunched over his schoolwork, pretty and kind, one long leg tucked just underneath his ass, no shirt, fresh from the shower.

Dean almost missed them, and he curses himself inside, because that means he’s slipping. He doesn’t miss shit, and that definitely includes someone else’s marks on his boy. Someone else has had their hands tangled in his hair, made his little body sing bright.

Dean’s about to double over he’s so goddamned furious, but it won’t do for Sammy to see that. Not yet, anyway.

“Hurt yourself, Sam?” Dean says complacently, color bled from his tone.

Sam stiffens from where he’s typing, looks up and squints in Dean’s direction. Dean’s leaning casually against the small bookshelf behind Sammy’s desk, and the boy’s turned his head enough so that he can see Dean’s profile.

“W-what?” Sam stutters, and really, that’s all Dean needed to know. “Your neck,”Dean says tightly, and Sam’s eyes are guileless, mouth a little open.

Dean’s moving so fast he doesn’t have the chance to catch himself, doesn’t even want it, really.

He curls his warm palm around the back of Sam’s neck and jerks his boy upright, so fast the kid never really had a chance. Sammy mewls, and the sound makes Dean’s dick jerk in response, rub against the cage of his jeans.

He shoves Sam against the edge of his own bed, and the boy catches himself before he lands face-first, whirls around to face Dean on instinct.

“Sit the fuck down, Sam.” Dean can hear the emptiness in his own voice, and Sam looks starved in front of him, and he lowers his slender body to the bed, braces the weight of his torso on both hands.

“Dean, what’s--” Dean lunges, gracefully, he might add, and snakes his fingers around Sam’s throat, just under his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t open your goddamn mouth.” Sam squirms underneath him, so pretty, Dean thinks.

-

Sam’s so scared he can taste the fear in the back of his mouth, his own blood and saliva, and he thinks his dick’s about to fight its way out of his sweatpants.

Jesus Christ.

Dean’s frightening the piss out of him, but he looks so volatile Sam knows it’s not a joke.

Sam thought the marks would have long since faded, and Sam’s angry enough at himself. He remembers what he let happen, and even if Dean doesn’t feel anything like that for him, even if Sam’s just a wet hole to fuck, he still violated his own conscience.

“Who the fuck was he?” Dean’s voice is so low that Sam trembles, and Dean’s hand comes around, curves against his cheek.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Dean hums, jams his thumb in carefully, just at the pulse point in Sam’s neck, so he couldn’t talk if he wanted to, can barely breathe. “M’gonna fuck it outta you.”

Sam’s mouth falls open in surprise and Dean takes his opportunity.

He flips Sam over, onto the vulnerable valley of his stomach, jerks his sweatpants down and off so quickly that they snag on his dick and a frisson of pain-pleasure lances through his body at the pull.

It’s then that Sam realizes that Dean’s been holding back all this time, that there’s apparently more, and better, he’s been packing away.

Sam’s scared that he’s not more scared.

Sam’s naked and exposed and he levers himself up on his elbows, only for the calluses of Dean’s palm to press harshly into the middle of his shoulder blades.

“Right there, Sammy,” Dean chastises, and Sam’s body follows the command without thought.

Dean climbs in between his legs, and Sam can feel the rustle of denim scrape against the soft insides of his thighs.

Dean curls his hands around Sam’s hips and tugs up, exposes his ass to the sudden chill of the room.

“Elbows, Sam. No higher.” Dean’s so cold that Sam’s eyes are watering, and he wants to speak but the words up and die in his throat when Dean shoves a finger in, dry, no warning.

Sam’s hips stutter forward and away, but Dean’s free hand is still locked around his bones, and it’s like a vice, no give.

“Wanted it so bad you couldn’t wait for me?” Dean hisses, pumps the digit in and out. Sam moans around a wince of pain, and Dean laughs huskily.

“It’s fucking mine, Sam. Did I say you could fucking share?” Dean’s voice rises in pitch and the words tumble out of Sam’s dry mouth, breathe on open air.

“N-no, Dean, I didn’t share, though, I--” Sam pauses when he registers the cool slickness of lube drizzle around Dean’s thumb, and then he feels Dean shove index and middle in alongside.

He’s not nearly ready and it burns so bad he pulls forward completely, and Dean’s digits slide out. Sam wants to curl in on himself, but he’s so hard it’s like a separate pulse against his body.

“You’ll let him touch you like that but not me?” Dean says, _drags_ him back the way he was and enters a second time, looser and less sting. He pumps his fingers languidly, as if he’s got all the time in the world, and Sam hiccups in his air.

“Nothing to say now, huh Sammy?” Dean’s voice is brittle and he twists his wrist to the left as his ring finger slithers on in. It’s more than Dean’s ever given him before, and Sam can barely breathe past the stretch and the fill, and he’s groaning so damn loud it hurts his own ears.

“Please, I didn’t do anything,” he begins, wetly, and then Dean’s hand leaves his hip and digs into the nape of his neck, bigger hands than Caleb’s, Sam recalls.

“Liar,” Dean whisper-yells, and pushes _hard_ so that his pinkie pops inside the ring with finality.

“Uh uh uh,” Sam grunts out, intelligent to the last. He squirms so hard on the fingers he thinks he could come from just this, for his very first time. His dick brushes up against his lower abdomen and it’s a white-hot brand of malice against his own skin.

It’s a steady betrayal, because this Dean is livid, fucking him like this.

“Want the whole thing, baby?” And even the word comes out wrong, laced with rage and a little something sour that Sam’s too confused and fucked-out to place.

“Ye-uh-huh,” Sam amends, not trusting himself to full words.

Dean leans closer, so that his head is just below Sam’s right ear.

“Beg for it, slut.” The words are just as cool as the prior, except for this time, Dean punctuates the statement with a drag from his teeth. They stutter against the flush of his neck, drag so hard Sam feels Dean open up actual wounds.

Dean’s tongue snakes out and collects what Sam assumes is his blood.

Dean’s humming to himself, No Quarter, maybe.

“If you wanted something pretty there, Sammy, all ya had to do was ask.” Dean’s voice is proud and hard, and that’s what does it, what makes Sam’s voice crack open on a beg.

“Please, please, _God, anything_ Dean, I want it all,” Sam shoves out, slick from his mouth. Dean goes right on pumping, scrapes a fingernail against the hold of his quivering rim.

Sam moans real long in the empty space of his dorm, hears Dean hum louder in compensation.

“Be specific, sweetheart. Like you’re writin’ a paper.”

Sam shoves back, wants to suck those fingers in on his own merit, but Dean tsks and digs his fingers into Sam’s side so viciously that Sam has to suck back a sob.

“Wanna feel your whole fist,” Sam says quietly, tries to speak around the thirst on his tongue. Dean hums his acknowledgement, continues his one-man act.

Dean spreads his legs open a little wider for balance, knocking Sam’s open so far that his left falls off the bed entirely and he’s forced to brace himself half on the floor.

“So _hungry_ for it,” Dean mutters, and that’s where it all stops. Dean twists his fingers, clockwise, and shoves with each rotation, exonerous.

He’s not hearing Sam’s cries, even though they’re ratcheting up the more that Dean slides home. Sam feels each individual appendage pop against his rim as more knuckles push inside, and then the dirty-hot thrill of the palm, thick and rigid against the width of his opening.

He humps back so hard that he can feel the slick little slaps his dick makes, bed to abs, abdomen to bed, and he’s crying so hard his face is damp.

There’s one final stretch and then it’s over, he can feel the knobs of Dean’s wrist and he knows Dean’s fully sheathed inside, slower pumps of his hand than earlier, knuckles flexing against the slickness of his inner walls.

“You look so fucking nasty like this,” Dean breathes, and it’s so rude-reverent that Sam has to turn his face away.

Dean reaches up to tangle his open hand into Sam’s hair, jerks him so that his neck is twisted backwards, and his mouth lolls open for air. He’s not really getting any at this angle, but he can’t bring himself to care when he’s split open on Dean’s fist this way.

“He do this to you?” Dean grits out, and Sam cringes internally at the fury, he’s been so lost he doesn’t have the words to say no, it wasn’t like that.

Sam’s moaning, one continuous streak, and he can’t seem to stop making all this noise for Dean, filth dripping from his mouth.

Dean pulls free so roughly that it sends a spasm of pain shuddering through Sam’s body, and the loss of leverage sends him plummeting back down to his sheets.

He scrabbles for purchase, but Dean roughly grabs the leg that had fallen off earlier and deposits it back on the bed. Sam doesn’t have time to catch his breath, open his mouth for oxygen, because Dean jerks his hips back into position.

Dean’s zipper slides down and then Sam feels him inch closer, hot brand of his erection rubbing against the sloppy mess of Sam’s ass, gliding through the slick there.

When Dean finds his voice again, it’s rougher, tinged with an appetite.

“Hold yourself open.” Dean pauses. “Wide as you can, til it burns.” The words are so confident that Sam bristles, Dean’s so damn sure that Sam’s just gonna bend and spread for him.

Dean clears his throat.

“You can’t afford for me to say it twice, Sammy.”

Sam’s moving so quickly it’s like he’s taken leave of his senses, and he digs his fingers into his cheeks, pulls them apart so roughly it stings, just like Dean wants.

He’s leaning on his face, cheek smashed into his pillow, and he has to inch his fingers back into the crease every few seconds, they keep slipping in the wetness.

He can feel his hole winking, and he listens to Dean’s stuttered intake of air. “You’re so open for me,” Dean notes, wolf-hunger, and Sam’s voice catches in his throat.

“S’what you wanted,” Sam whispers, and all of a sudden Dean’s moving quickly, and Sam can feel a tremble run through his body.

The come-wet tip of Dean’s cock snags on Sam’s loose rim twice before Dean manages to aim. He shoves forward, brutal snap of the hips, and Dean’s right, Sam’s so wide that he doesn’t even really feel the intrusion, not til Dean is buried to the hilt.

Dean doesn’t pause, won’t do things in halves.

He’s punishing, there’s no other word for it, he digs his short fingernails into Sam’s hips and pounds, slap of balls to ass obscene in the quiet of the room.

Sam can see his Jango Fett lamp shudder against his desk, and then he squeezes his eyes shut.

Dean’s hand comes down, solid thwack against his upturned ass, and Sam’s lower back aches from the demanding position that Dean’s kept him in for so long.

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean grunts, and Sam wants to answer, but he can’t breathe, and he’s been so damn hard for so long.

Dean shoves his hand between Sam’s abs and the bed, wiggles in the small space so that he can get at the burning line of Sam’s dick. His fingers are rough with hard work and age, and they squeeze a little too tight, but all Dean’s been giving him is a fire-thin ache, and he’s done from the contact alone.

Dean wrings it out of him, and Sam squeals, high in the air, and Dean’s fucking into him with slow, deep circles as he grips Sam’s cock and drains him dry.

Sam’s body slides down to the bed but Dean doesn’t stop, speed picks up again now that Sam’s out for the count.

“M’gonna kill him. You hear me, Sammy? M’gonna kill you both.” Dean’s words are windowpane clear, and Sam’s hands haven’t moved an inch from where they’re holding his ass wide open for Dean’s consumption. His fingernails hurt against the soft flesh of his crack but Dean hasn’t said for him to let go yet.

Dean’s coming, right after that, and Dean grunts his way through it, finishes on an almost feral growl. Sam feels the noise down to his toes, and Dean tugs himself out. Sam whimpers when he feels the warm salt of Dean’s come sliding down his stretched open thighs.

Dean’s breathing heavily behind him, but his words are still frigid and demanding.

“Kept ‘em open, like a good little bitch.”

“One last thing,” Dean says, and Sam mewls. “Anything,” Sam whispers, because they’ve come to this. Anything Dean wants from him, he’ll find out how to give it.

“Clean yourself up.” Dean commands. Dean pulls Sam’s hand away from its death-grip on his right cheek and presses Sam’s index and middle finger into the pliant ring of his gaping hole.

Dean uses Sam’s own fingers to scoop his come out, and presses those same fingers into Sam’s slack mouth.

“Just like that. Keep holding yourself open and don’t move from this spot.” Sam’s already reaching his hands back down to his ass, pushes in his own fingers and whimpers with the sensitivity, can’t resist pressing down on his prostate as he scoops out more of Dean’s come.

Dean groans, seemingly involuntarily. Sam pushes his fingers inside his mouth hungrily, swirls his tongue all around the musky flavor, bitter tang of Dean’s release.

“Jesus, you’re a nasty whore for me,” Dean breathes, and then he’s standing, zipping his pants back up. Sam must make some sound, because Dean’s hand comes down so hard on his ass that Sam speeds up, digs deeper than before for another spoonful.

“Better be clean when I get back, sweetheart,” Dean says, his voice something resembling normalcy.

“W-where are you going, Dean,” Sam gets out, speaking from around the spit-shine of his fingers.

Dean’s already at the door, shrugging his jacket on over stiff shoulders, and he doesn’t turn back around when he answers.

“Like to know my enemy.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I need a holy water cleanse. Any ideas on what should happen next?


End file.
